


and for a moment

by typefortydeductions



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, background sam/natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1807675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typefortydeductions/pseuds/typefortydeductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Natasha asks Steve and Bucky help save their local arts centre it proves the wake-up call they need to uncover their true feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [Lauri](http://captainshroom.tumblr.com) for her beautiful art, and to [Laura](http://youandibreatheconstellations.tumblr.com) for her help with editing.

The gang of two, his mum had always called them. There’d been others, kids who had floated in and out, girls on Bucky’s arm – Peggy, until she’d had to go back to England, half-breaking Steve’s heart in the process. But it had always been Bucky and Steve, Steve and Bucky. The terrible twosome, his mum had always called them, smiling at Steve through fading eyes. And it’d stuck, their own little gang of two, the larger groups mainly ignoring them. Mainly, not always, because Steve never _could_ stay away from a fight.

He’d heard raised voices from the alleyway next to the bar, and had spun on his heel in time to see the blow, the swing of red hair, and the too-slight body of Natasha falling to the floor. He’d been running before he even processed what had happened, chest heaving, skinny arms flailing at the men surrounding her. One broken nose and several bruised ribs later, Bucky arrived, eyes flashing with anger, mouth quirking in a semblance of a smirk he couldn’t quite maintain. And Bucky was… _God_ , Bucky was like an avenging angel, with all the nimble grace he showed on the dancefloor, and the strength he displayed at the boxing gym. Steve had seen Bucky fight before, of course – this wasn’t exactly their first rodeo, and they both had a talent for getting into trouble, but this… This was something else. Steve had gone slack for a moment, motionless with awe, and that second was all it had taken to get him trapped. He wakes up feeling those fingers against his bones, sometimes.

He remembers his wrists pinned back, struggling against the body behind him, the burn in his lungs. Remembers screaming, screaming, _screaming_ , screaming until he couldn’t breathe, until his breath came in hoarse gasps that didn’t seem to reach his chest, until the world swam before his eyes, and all he could see was red, so much red.

Bucky was strong, but he couldn’t take five guys. And Steve had been helpless, small and breathless, had been unable to take his eyes from Bucky as his body was broken before him. Except for the second he had looked up and met Natasha’s hollow gaze. Sunken eye-sockets and sharp cheekbones, and _red_. It was all he could see, when he closed his eyes, later, sat in the hospital with Bucky, listening to the sharp beep of the heart monitor, clutching Bucky’s hand in his own. The pool of blood spreading from Bucky, and the softer flash of Natasha’s hair as she was dragged from the scene.

And, afterwards, Steve remembers the look in Bucky’s eyes as he’d awoken, trying to reach for Steve with a hand that was no longer there. Desperate, grasping. The uncomprehending panic of a child, topping, unbalanced, into Steve’s sides, the heaving breaths as Steve tried to explain what had happened, pressing the call button again and again in desperation. Bucky’s blank, unseeing stare as he related the incident in monotone, every excruciating detail that the court demanded. The thugs had gone to jail, and Natasha, who’d testified against them, disappeared off to rehab. For six months, that had been it, and Steve and Bucky had been left to pick up the pieces and rebuild. Slowly, Bucky had learnt to reach out with metal fingers instead.


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha sashayed back into town six months later, looking healthy and terrifyingly focused, with a whole posse of unfamiliar faces trailing in her wake. They never mentioned it, skirting around each other, for all intents and purposes living in completely different worlds.

Which, Steve feels, goes some way to explain why, when he looks up idly at the café, only to meet Natasha’s eyes, he reacts the way he does. Natasha lifts an eyebrow, surveys the knocked-over glass and spreading puddle of water with a cool gaze, and turns swiftly to Bucky, who is glaring at a spot somewhere in the vicinity of her midriff.

“I need your help.” Bucky’s head snaps up, and he turns to Steve, eyebrows raised. Steve shrugs, and they just look at each other for a moment in mutual incomprehension. Natasha has never asked for help – not ever – and to do it now, after months of ignoring them, doesn’t seem to make any sense.

“James, Steve. I’m serious.” Bucky turns back to her, slowly cocks his head in an invitation to continue. “The arts centre – you know, the one we used to go to as kids –“ And yeah, Steve remembers it, they both do. The splashes of colour and piles of pens, so different from their drab and faded room at the group home. The way Bucky looked with paint on his nose, crinkling it when he laughed. Steve’s careful, studious sketches, the supervisors who were the first adults to tell him he had talent, the place where he’d realised he wanted to go to art school. And Natasha, in the corner, quiet and still, sweeping long strokes of watercolour paint over the paper, again and again.

Bucky is nodding cautiously now, and Natasha looks at him more intently. “I went back there,” Natasha has never been one to flinch away from the messy, and she doesn’t hesitate now “after rehab, to help out, and it’s…it was doing great, it was doing what it always did, maybe even more, and now…” she does pause this time, sweeps her hand as if in one, final stroke “the council wants to shut it down. Art funding cuts, you know how it goes.” Steve clenches his fist involuntarily, sees Bucky notice the movement – for a second, the corner of his mouth twitches – and, well. Since when has either of them ever walked away from a fight? Natasha is in full flow now, her gaze resolute. “We need as many people as possible – and you two know people. Steve, you’ve gotta have contacts in the art community who could help raise the profile of this, stir up a fuss. Bucky, I need to you to get a hold of the Stark guy who’s always being quoted in the paper. I know he loves a noble cause.” She smiles, and Steve thinks he can detect a hint of truth amidst the steel. “After all, looks like he did you a favour already.” Steve’s hand is over Bucky’s before he can move a finger, but it turns out to be unnecessary. Bucky smiles, slow and mocking.

“That he did, Romanova. You wanna see what it can do?” He flips Steve’s hand, sliding the metal joints along the table. Natasha stares back at him, unperturbed.

“Hopefully more than your other arm, Barnes, or I pity your dates.” She smiles brightly, wide and disarming, and Steve feels a shiver go down his spine. He’s liked Natasha since they were kids, but he’s never quite been able to shake the feeling that she could take him apart with her little finger. Bucky grins back at her, delighted, and for a moment it feels like their old, easy teenage banter. “Are you in or not?”

“For you and the pursuit of art, Natasha? Always.”

........................................................................................

The next morning Steve opens his laptop to find an email from Natasha. He has no idea how she got his email address, but he stopped questioning that sort of thing after she’d hacked Bucky’s myspace account in eighth grade in order to announce that they were now dating. Bucky, who had previously had no idea of his new relationship status, had been wildly impressed, which. Well. Bucky had always had odd ideas about boundaries when it came to people he liked.

Steve looks up as the person in question shuffles into question, Steve’s over-long sweatpants half covering his feet.

“Wass goin on?” Bucky yawns, reaching around Steve to scroll through the email. It’s pretty much what Natasha had told them yesterday, only this time outlined with military precision, including a step-by-step plan that mention several unfamiliar names – Natasha’s new buddies, he figures. There’s a time and location for a meeting, too, and Bucky swears when he sees it. “Shit, Steve, she’s really going all out on workin’ that nostalgia thing, huh?”

The address is the coffee place opposite their high school, the one where they’d spent every rainy day Steve can remember, buying a single drink between the two of them – and whoever had happened to tag along – and trying to avoid being kicked out for loitering. Natasha had already drifted away by then, started hanging around with the guys from the docks, always surrounded by men who laughed too loud and too long. Even so, Steve had seen her there occasionally, curled up small in her seat, face half-hidden by a book. So, yeah. She’s working the nostalgia thing.

“Guess she’s really giving this all she’s got” he says. Bucky’s expression gentles, his eyes soft and distant.

“It’s Tasha, Stevie. When has she done anything else?”

........................................................................................

Everyone is already gathered round a table by the time they arrive at the café. Natasha waves a hand in greeting, and then points round the table, naming each person in rapid succession.

“Sam. Darcy. Bruce. “ She turns back to them. “James. Steve. OK. Game plan.” They’re really just going over Natasha’s itinerary, making sure everyone knows exactly what they’re doing next. They discover that Darcy is a PhD student, currently writing her dissertation on the importance of art programmes in later development, that Bruce is a professor at Columbia (at which point Bucky interjects to compare notes on professors and cafeteria food) but has a goddaughter that goes to the centre, and that Sam is a veteran who works for the VA, who use the space for art therapy sessions. They all clearly have a vested interest in the situation, but Steve gets the feeling that, like him, they’re all just pretty mad that someone would try and take this thing away from the kids.

Steve means to pay full attention to everyone, he really does, but he sorta gets…stuck on Sam. The guy is gorgeous, all athletic muscles and fifty-watt smile and, well. Steve’s not blind. He senses Bucky is looking at him, waiting to share a smile at Natasha’s old, familiar business-like tone, and belatedly turns his head in time to see it turn into a glare, directed at Sam. Sam lifts in mock surrender and laughs.

“Whoa there, big guy. I’m not after your boy – my heart belongs to this beautiful lady over here.” He turns his smile on Natasha, who rolls her eyes, trying to hide a smile. And wow. OK. Steve did _not_ see that coming, but, even so, he can’t help but be instinctively happy for both of them. Bucky is still glaring, mumbling.

“S’not my boy” and Steve – Steve barely has time to feel his heart sink (he knows, he _knows_ it could never happen, that beautiful brave Bucky will never look at him the way Steve wants him to. That it’s enough that Steve gets to have _this_. That the boy who could have his pick of any girl – or guy – in New York City wants to come home to Steve). And then Darcy is interrupting, leaning forward on her elbows, eyes flicking rapidly between the two of them.

“Wait – let me get this straight – you guys  _aren't_  together?”

“No, I –“

“It’s not –“

They stop, awkward, avoiding each other’s eyes. There is silence for a moment, Darcy still staring, brow furrowed, and then it is broken by Natasha’s sigh.

“I can’t believe you two still haven’t got your act together. I thought for sure in high school, at least after I –“ Bucky’s head shoots up and there is something desperate, pleading in his gaze, something that makes Natasha look almost pitying for a second, before her face clears and she carries on “before I ditched you because you were never going to stop pining over Steve.” There is a sharp screech as Bucky pushes his chair back, standing up so violently the table almost tips over. His right hand is shaking, and, before he sweeps out, Steve sees that his eyes are wide in panic, his mouth twisted in anguish.

There is a beat.

And Steve follows Bucky, because Steve always follows Bucky. Even when he has no idea what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky is at the end of the road by the time Steve stumbles outside, made clumsy by terror. He runs, panting, lungs burning and gasping for oxygen that he can’t find, barely able to shout out Bucky’s name. He’s still half a road away when Bucky turns around, because he has always had a sixth sense when it comes to Steve’s wellbeing, and _fuck,_ Steve can’t lose him now, not like this. He feels strong, familiar hands grasp his arms, pull him up from where he stands, bent almost double, and carefully seat him on the ground.

“Hey, hey, Stevie, breathe.” Bucky’s hands him his inhaler, and he shoves it into his mouth, gasps greedily, trying not to breathe out too quickly. “Hey, alright now. What you go and do a dumbass thing like that for, huh?” Steve opens his mouth, reaches for Bucky but – “no, no, you gotta concentrate on breathing, aright? Just breathe for me.” And Bucky is dodging away from his hand, and Steve can’t, he _can’t,_ he can’t let this happen –

“Bucky, Bucky, fuck I’m so sorry, I know I just – “ his lungs aren’t co-operating, there’s no air, there are no _words_ , but he has to – “I know I get in the way, I know you spent all your time looking after me in school, and that I ruined your thing with Tasha, and now she has Sam and it’s, it’s—it’s gone, and maybe I’m why it’s gone, and I’m sorry, I won’t – I’ll stay out your way more, you can go out, like you used to, I won’t – just” he reaches out again, but Bucky is still, staring at him, and, God, Steve just needs to make him _understand_ “just don’t go, Buck. I can make things better, I just don’t want you to go, but –“

“ _Go?”_ Bucky is motionless, taut, fists clenches, and God, he’s made him angry he’s – “What the fuck, Steve? What the fuck are you _talking_ about?” He’s shaking now, his eyes wide and terrified, and Steve wants to reach for him but his hands won’t move and – “you think I’m gonna go? Is this what this is about? You think I could ever go? You think I could just fucking _leave_ you? That I could just walk out?”

“But I—“ Something in Bucky’s eyes clears, and he looks down, down to where Steve’s knees are curled tight against his chest.

“You never messed up a thing, Stevie. Nat was right. I could never stop. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I wanted this to be _enough._ ” He smiles bitterly “I’m a selfish bastard, Stevie. You always saw the best in me, but you didn’t see everything. I couldn’t just leave it be, couldn’t keep buryin’ it in bars and pretty girls. Had to come back, had to keep you to myself. Woulda broke my fuckin’ heart to leave you, Stevie, even more than it broke it to stay.” He raises his eyes to Steve’s chest, watches it rise and fall, and before Steve can say anything, he gets to his feet and turns away.

Steve walks, aching and slow-footed, back to the apartment. He sinks down onto the couch, burrowing into the indent that Bucky left there, short hours before, pressing his face into the cushion like, if he pretends hard enough, he’ll be able to feel Bucky’s warmth against his skin. He falls asleep like that, cell phone clenched tight in his hand.

He’s woken up by Bucky’s return. He doesn’t sound drunk, thank God – his movements are too quiet, too controlled for that (but Steve has spent years attuning his ears to Bucky’s footsteps, can recognise them even in his sleep), and Steve sits up, reaches over to turn on the lamp.

Bucky is a half-illuminated shadow in the doorway. He is still, unmoving, and Steve can’t get over how _small_ he looks.

“Stevie?” his voice is a whisper. And Steve still can’t speak, but Bucky has always been brave enough for both of them, when it really matters. “Stevie, I’m sorry for runnin’ off like that. Couldn’t think properly, s’all. Needed to clear my head.” Steve can hear the excuses coming, the evasion, and he’s let it happen so many times before, has been so fucking _scared_ to shake this thing that they have, but not now, not after what Bucky said.

“Bucky?” His voice, when it comes, is broken. “Buck – you got it all wrong.” Bucky jerks, the light slicing across his face as he moves, and no, no “no, Buck, I –“ And Steve is a lot of things, but subtle is not one of them. “I love you, Bucky. I don’t. I don’t know what you were saying, before, I don’t know what you want” and he’s shaking, because the idea of Bucky not wanting _him_ is one he’s used to – but Bucky not wanting any of it? Bucky not wanting _this?_ That’s unbearable. “But I love you. And that’s. That’s there, if you want it.”

There is a long moment, where Steve watches Bucky’s chest rise and fall in jagged movements, digs his fingernails into his palms to stop himself from reaching out, from begging – and then Bucky is moving, stumbling across the room with frantic, uncontrolled steps and –

“ _Fuck_ , Stevie, been so fucking stupid, didn’t think –“ he collapses onto his knees, grabs Steve’s hands in his own, and they’re both trembling “didn’t think you could want me, you’re too _good_ , Stevie, always been so good, and I didn’t think –“

“Didn’t think about a whole lot, seems to me.” Bucky chokes out a laugh, bringing his head to rest on Steve’s knees, and something in Steve’s chest loosens, because they still have this. They can still be _them._ He frees one hand, winding his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tipping his head up gently so he can slide down onto the floor next to him. His chest is aching and his stomach is twisted, and their palms are sweaty where they are pressed together, and it is _perfect._ Tear stains and aching limbs and the crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch, and Bucky is tracing a finger along his jawline like he’s the most precious thing in creation, and Steve wouldn’t change a thing.

They just breathe for a moment, foreheads tipped together, and then, suddenly, Bucky jerks back.

“Steve! Fuck, I didn’t say – I love you too, I do, I think I’ve always loved you, but you were so _much_ and I forgot to say it and –“ and Steve is laughing, can’t help it, because this whole thing is so ridiculous, _they’re_ so ridiculous, and it’s just so Bucky to just _forget_. And then Bucky is laughing too, and they’re rolling around on the floor like children, and there’ll be an ache there, later, about how much time they lost, but right now Steve’s mouth hurts from smiling, and Bucky is shaking his head and clutching his ribs, and he feels like he could maybe take on the whole of the state government right here in their lounge.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Steve wakes with Bucky’s arm flung over him, his jeans hiked up to show off the ridiculous multi-coloured socks he insists on wearing. Steve rubs his ankle against the patterns fondly, trailing his finger up Bucky’s leg, over his chest, along the line of his jaw. Bucky’s eyelids flutter in his sleep, his cheek twitching in a flicker of a smile, and Steve feels something in his chest _surge._ He leans down and touches his lips to Bucky’s forehead. It creases under his lips, and Steve feels Bucky’s eyelids brush against his jaw as they open.

“Mornin’.” Bucky is smiling at him, sweet and open. He looks oddly young in his half-asleep state, hair sticking up where it has been pulled out of its ponytail, clothes rumpled and creased. It’s –  he’s too much. He’s always been too much. Steve rubs his thumb over Bucky’s forehead, smooths out the lines. Kisses Bucky. _Kisses Bucky._ His lips are chapped and neither of them have brushed their teeth, but he can feel the line of Bucky’s teeth under his tongue, can feel his smile change, surprised but pleased, the flutter of his eyelashes as his eyes close again, and he’s _kissing Bucky._ Bucky’s hands move to cup his hips, thumbs resting on the waistband of his jeans, and this is the moment Steve’s brain decides to kick into gear.

“Wait, Buck, wait –“ Steve jerks back, and Bucky’s hands fly off him, his face stricken “We didn’t talk about this, what do you – I don’t know what you want, what you, what you want us to be?”

“I?” Bucky is staring at him like he’s an idiot, clearly struggling to formulate an answer “Did you not hear me when I said I’m in love with you? That I want to be with you, that I want _you_ above everybody and everythin’ else? Did that conversation slip your mind?” And yeah, OK, Steve deserves that, but –

“You wanna date me, Buck?” He’s grinning now (because Bucky wants him, _wants_ him, wants _him)_ and Bucky snorts, reaches out for him again.

“Steve, buddy, we been datin’ our whole lives. But yeah, I wanna date you. God knows why though, ‘mount of time it’s takin’ to get through your thick skull.”

“Need a thick skull to stop all your dumbass ideas gettin’ in there.” He pushes Bucky playfully and Bucky grins, manic, grabbing onto Steve so that he doesn’t tip over. The movement knocks their shoulders together, and Bucky’s breath is hot in Steve’s ear for a second before he licks along it, warm and wet and less gross than Steve pretends when he shoves him off, heart beating too fast in his chest.

Bucky is on his back now, staring up at him. It’s the same challenging smirk he’s always worn: the one that convinced Steve to pull pranks, or skip school, or that, yes, asking Peggy to prom really _was_ a good idea. The same one that convinced Steve to take Bucky’s hand in the first place. He remembers a playground fight, a whirlwind intervention with scuffed knees and four missing teeth, and a “hey, buddy, what’s your name?”, accompanied by the smile that Steve would follow for the rest of his life. Whether they’re rough-and-tumble kids with no common sense, or full-grown adults, rolling around half-dressed on the floor, they’re always gonna have that. Whether Bucky is pulling him up from the ground, or down, so that they’re chest to chest, gasping into each his mouth, nipping at his earlobe, hands tracing along his ribs, his clavicle, the muscles of his thigh –

They’re always going to be _them_.

……………………………………………………………………………

Steve awakes to the sound of his phone clattering to the floor. Still buzzing furiously, it skitters across the carpet, from where it had fallen from the pocket of his jeans – haphazardly flung over the back of a chair. Steve blushes. The room is in chaos – two chairs knocked over, cushions on the floor, and their clothes strewn _everywhere_ – all except for Bucky’s socks, which had miraculously remained unremoved in their frantic rush. They hadn’t even made it halfway to a bedroom, let alone to a bed. His phone is silent for a moment, and then buzzes four times in quick succession.  Steve groans, reaching across Bucky – who is still snoring, face smushed into the carpet, bare ass in the air (and Steve knows he’s a hopeless case, because his face softens at the sight) – to grab it, sliding it unlocked.

_Natasha: Assuming you found Bucky_

_Natasha: And that it all worked out_

_Natasha: ;)_

_Natasha: We’ll be round tonight to help you make banners_

Steve feels himself blushing, again – even in text form, Natasha still gives off a distinct air of knowing _exactly_ what went down. Reminding himself that she probably doesn’t actually have cameras installed in their apartment, he taps out a quick reply.

_Steve: Yeah, I probably owe you some kind of thanks for that one. :) Lmk what time you want to arrive._

He drops the phone back on the floor and curls back into Bucky’s side, nuzzling into the crook of his arm. Bucky shifts beside him, tucking Steve more firmly against his chest, and they drift back off to sleep.

…………………………………………………………………………

They spend the rest of the day lazing about the apartment and sending emails to the people Natasha asked them to contact. Bucky has a particularly lively conversation with Tony Stark, trading whip-smart remarks and engineering jokes Steve can barely follow, but it seems to go well. Steve only met the guy once - he was with Bucky when the final arm was presented to him – but his main memory of wild-eyed, over-caffeinated genius seems to fit with the rapid-fire voice on the phone.

There was a part of Steve that had worried that, after the initial rush, they wouldn’t quite know how to behave with each other. But the two of them had always knocked shoulders, pushed and pulled each other in the direction they wanted to go. Steve has always touched Bucky’s back to get his attention, and it is easy to stroke his hand along his spine instead, lean into the strong curves of his shoulders.  Bucky has always ruffled Steve’s hair, and now he winds his fingers into it, tips his face up for a kiss. When Steve had thought about this, before, he’d always been so worried about what could be lost that he’d never considered what could be gained, had never thought about how something so similar could be changed in just the smallest of ways.  

Natasha rolls up at about seven, Sam, Bruce and Darcy trailing behind her, all four of them carrying crates full of white fabric and paint. As soon as his arms are free Sam sticks out a hand to Bucky.

“Hey, man, sorry about that mix-up yesterday. No hard feelings, right?” Bucky shakes his hand, bemused.

“Yeah, no. I mean, uh. It was completely my fault anyways, I, uh” he shuffles his feet, grins self-deprecatingly “guess my head isn’t quite on straight when it comes to Steve.” Sam grins up at him, bright and assured.

“Don’t I just know that feeling.” He tips his head towards Natasha “First thing she said to me when I asked her out was ‘promise me you’re not secretly in love with your best friend.’ Think she’s been waitin’ for this for a while.” He grins at a blushing Bucky and heads off to help Natasha unload. Steve is just about to join him when he is headed off by Darcy, who is speaking before he can even move.

“I’m, um, sorry too? You guys were just so _obviously_ in love, you know, that I just assumed, which I totally shouldn’t have done, but.” She stops, bringing her hands up as if physically screeching to a halt. “ _Wait._ You guys are in love, right? I didn’t just make this awkward again? Because it’s totally cool if you’re not, I’m just usually pretty good at reading signals like that, but –“ Bucky, standing just behind Steve, starts laughing, and she looks at him, bug-eyed. “Good laughing or bad laughing? Cause, dude, I really can’t tell right now.”

“Good laughing. Like.” Bucky glances at Steve. “Really good laughing.” She grins at him, clearly pleased, and skips off to help Natasha and Sam.

“Yeah, she’s always like that.” Steve spins round, and Bruce is still standing, quiet and unobtrusive, in the doorway. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s almost tucked into the ledge between the doorframe and the wall. Steve grins at him, helping him set the box down.

“How’d you know Darcy?”

“She did some observation of the arts centre, back in fall – for her thesis, and it was like…” he shakes his head “a very excitable whirlwind. It was great, the kids loved her, but I’m glad I was only there to drop Katie off, y’know?” Steve hums in agreement, unfurling the canvas and spreading newspaper beneath it.

“Yeah, I remember what it was like back when Bucky and I went as kids. Caused enough trouble on our own account and we didn’t have anyone else to incite us.” Bruce chuckles and kneels down on the floor next to Steve, looking almost surprised by the sound.

“So I’ve heard.” They sit in companionable silence as Steve sketches out the letters, Bruce passing him paint and keeping the canvas taut, sharing amused glances at the highly-contested debate between Natasha, Darcy and Bucky over the ending of some TV show they’re all into. Sam glances over occasionally to exchange wry grins, raising his eyebrows in the universal signal of ‘the people we love are crazy’. When Bucky leans back his hands brush Steve’s, their fingers interlocking briefly, like a promise. And Steve pauses, paintbrush on paper, absorbing the hubbub around him, the presence of the person he has loved all his life, and the people he thinks he could come to love. And he’s happy.


	5. Chapter 5

The area outside the arts centre is already thronging with people by the time they get there. Bucky waves as he spots Jim and Dugan, his college friends, pointedly swinging their joined hands. Steve blushes as he watches them break into wide smiles, nudging each other and exchanging marked looks. He dashes off before they can make their way over, leaving Bucky to deal with the inevitable ‘about times’ and barely-concealed innuendo. As it turns out, they’d been obvious to everyone but themselves. Natasha appears out of nowhere, linking arms and dragging him off to a corner, where the rest of the arts centre staff are putting the finishing touches to yet more banners.

By the time Steve has time to look up again, the street is packed. Kids on their parents shoulders, clutching posters tightly; a whole group of veterans that Sam must’ve rounded up – in full uniform, no less; people from high school Steve hasn’t seen in _years_ , his friends from art school, Bucky’s gang from college – and a whole gaggle of press, professors and at least one local politician that Darcy and Tony – complete with matching oversized sunglasses – are buzzing around excitedly. A neon-adorned teenager, head encircled in spiralling braids, holds her hand out for the last banner, waving her two friends forward to take up the other end.

“We’re gonna be in the paper.” She tells him, all affected nonchalance, and he grins, takes in the way her nails are painted every colour of the rainbow, her fingertips stained with marker pens.

“Yeah? You’re gonna have to get to the front with that then.” She smirks, flicking her head, and Steve watches them as they shoulder through the crowd confidently. He’s pretty sure they’ll be front page tomorrow. Their cocksure swagger – the way they walk across the street like they own it – is almost painfully reminiscent of him and Bucky. He can see them if he closes his eyes, Bucky’s exaggerated slouch, Steve scurrying at his side, worryingly thin under hand-me-down clothes. The way Bucky walked with swinging hips and slow steps when he noticed Steve struggling to breathe, pretending like he just wanted to take his time. The crick in his neck that came from sitting on the fire escape, staring up at Bucky as he’d told the stories of what they would do, who they would be. Presidents, movie stars, firemen, and always the two of them, side by side.

“Steve?” Bucky’s touch at his waist startles him out of the memory, and he stumbles slightly, Bucky’s arm coming around to hold him upright. “Steady on there, darlin’” Bucky’s voice is low in his ear, and Steve’s heart skips a beat at the unfamiliar nickname. Bucky’s arm tightens on his waist and he turns his head to smile at Steve. “Think Tasha’s about to start – wanted to come find you so we could watch the speeches together.” They watch as Nat clambers onto the makeshift stage of upturned crates, accompanied by the self-same woman who’d guided Steve’s first clumsy paintings all those years ago. To be honest, he hadn’t been sure she was even still alive, let alone still able to keep a bunch of rambunctious kids in line. “Makes you feel like you should be cleanin’ paint up or something, don’t it?” Steve grins back at Bucky, who’d always thought that a successful session meant that more paint covered Steve’s face than the paper.

“Yeah, better hide your troublesome face or else she’s gonna be collectin’ some of those cleaning duties you still owe her.” Bucky elbows him in the ribs, prevented from replying by the sound of Natasha’s voice. She talks about briefly about the aim of the gathering, and then introduces Mrs. Voutt, who looks bemused by the loud cheering that greets her name.

“It’s nice to see so many familiar faces out there today, especially ones I haven’t seen for a while,” she says as she scans the crowd, Bucky ducking his head into Steve’s shoulder. “Any of you who’ve been through here – or who’ve had kids go through – you know that it’s important, it’s necessary to have somewhere to go, somewhere to make somethin’ or to do something’ that’s not only not causin’ trouble, it’s _creating._ Think we’re gonna have some smarter people than me talk a bit about that, but I just wanted to thank everyone for comin’ out.” She beams out at the crowd, casts a stern look at the kid wobbling the crate next to her, and dismounts as the assembly breaks into thunderous applause.

Bucky lifts his head as Darcy walks onto the platform, smiling brilliantly at the assembled press as she quotes three sets of terrifying statistics, before launching into five minutes of rapid-fire puns in order to explain exactly _why_ art is so important in social development. Bucky is still blinking, dazed, when Sam ushers on a tall, medal-covered guy he introduced as Colonel Rhodes. He stares, unblinking, out onto the crowd for a moment, before beginning to speak in a voice laden with authority. Steve sees several members of the audience stand up a little straighter, and at least one politician starts fiddling nervously with his shirt-cuffs. He can’t help but smile. Bucky squeezes his waist, and Steve can feel his matching grin against his hair. The press are scribbling frantically now, and by the time the parade of children’s art begins the cameras are flashing constantly. Natasha is beaming fiercely, ushering five-year-olds with paintings of stick figures in front of apartment blocks, middle schoolers with angsty multi-coloured collages, and teenagers with elaborate wire sculptures onto the stage. Steve watches as the girls from earlier proudly display some kind of glow-stick-adorned… _thing,_ skirts flaring as they twirl in the middle of the crates, clearly enjoying their big moment.

The music is blaring from the speakers as the kids parade, and Bucky grabs his hand, laughing.

“May I have this dance, Rogers?” Steve is blushing, stumbling over his feet as Bucky pulls them out of the press of the crowd. He’s pressed tight against Bucky’s chest, can feel the vibration of the bass pumping through both their chests, Bucky’s hand resting in the small of his back. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam spin Natasha around in some terrifyingly athletic move, Jim directing some breakdancing teens, kids bopping up and down in excitable circles. He’s almost dizzy with it all, the colour and noise and movement and the staccato flash of the cameras, and he tucks his head into Bucky’s chest, feels Bucky’s hand come up to cup his neck. “Hey, you OK, buddy?” Steve nods, steps back from Bucky. They’re still holding hands, and he tugs on Bucky’s gently.

“They don’t need us right now, Buck” he mutters, and Bucky nods, leading him away slowly, waving goodbye to the people they recognise. Sam tosses them a joking salute, Jim whispering something to Dugan as they both grin wickedly – Steve is pretty sure he’s better off not knowing what. Bucky’s thumb is stroking along his soothingly, and Steve smiles gently up at him as they stroll along the familiar streets.

“D’you remember when I got beat up in that alleyway?”

“’Member you getting’ beat up in every damn alleyway in Brooklyn, Stevie.” Bucky’s grip tightens on his hand, and Steve feels the echo of every shoulder squeeze, every arm slung around his shoulders, as Bucky had led him away from countless fights, blood invariably streaming from both their noses. “You never did have an ounce of sense in you.”

“Can’t have done, can I, endin’ up with a punk like you –“  And Bucky is laughing, shoving him sideways, running backwards before Steve can retaliate. His head is tipped back, the light of the sunset turning his skin red and gold, silhouetting him against the skyline. Steve leans forward to reach for him, and Bucky jumps out the way, and they are running, running and laughing, and Bucky’s hand is somehow tight in his, and the bass drum still beats in his heart like he’s dancing.


	6. Epilogue

“Hey, Steve!” Bucky is waving his phone in Steve’s direction “Tasha texted – said she’s just come out of negotiations, that Tony agreed to match government funding, and that combined with public pressure – they’re gonna keep it open!” He grins down at Steve, taking the sketchbook out of his hands and placing it on the window ledge beside them. “We saved the centre, Stevie!”

“Think some other people mighta had a hand in that, Bucky.”

Bucky’s still grinning, running his hands along Steve’s shoulders, down his arms.

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’, childlike in his glee “We’re heroes, Stevie, you just gotta accept that.” Steve smiles up at him, shifts so that Bucky can stand between his legs. “And as a hero, think I deserve some kind of award.” Bucky is smirking now, hands encircling Steve’s biceps. He pulls him up, sliding his hands down to Steve’s ass, and just straight-up _lifts_ him _._ Steve wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist before he even thinks about it, before he can process what is happening. Bucky tips his head up to Steve’s, noses knocking as they try and work out the unfamiliar angle. Steve’s arms are wrapped around Bucky’s neck, his hands tangled in his hair, and then Bucky is moving, walking them to the bedroom, head tipped over Steve’s shoulder so that he can see where they’re going. Even so, it’s a miracle they don’t crash into anything – Bucky’s chest is distractingly warm against him, the muscles of his arms taut against his legs, his lips pressing into the curve of Steve’s collarbone. He licks along it, grazing the skin with his teeth, and Steve tugs Bucky’s hair in recrimination. Bucky stumbles, only just avoiding banging his head into the doorframe. The thud of his back against the wood knocks something down from the adjacent shelf, blocking his path and he dumps Steve on the bed, hand on hips, biting his lip, turning to kick it out of the way, and then his face lights up with sudden glee –

“Hey, Stevie! Finger paints!”

Steve turns up to class the next day with blue still smeared inside his ear, green dotted in the hollow of his throat, and red along the line of his spine, just visible where his shirt rises up. No-one says a word.


End file.
